


It Burns

by viceversa



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mulder's on the VCU team for a bit, Stabbing, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-06-12 07:16:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15334680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceversa/pseuds/viceversa
Summary: It was no surprise that Mulder’s soul was damaged goods. Years of past trauma and delving into the mind of evil over and over has taken its toll. Scully intervenes, the killer is elusive, and pain awaits.Also they're in love ok.





	1. Chapter 1

Mulder had spent the whole of his adult life getting into the minds of people who did repulsive things. It’s what he was good at, which when he thought about that too long made him a little nauseous, really, to wonder exactly why he was so easily able to slip into the persona of evil itself. 

But that’s beside the point. 

As an agent in Violent Crimes, and now in the X Files, Mulder had delved into the mindset of murderers, rapists, serial killers, stalkers, and a host of unnatural predators in order to understand what it was that made them tick, what their next move would be, all in the long game of catching them before they made their next move. 

He practiced their rituals. He held their weapons in his hand, went through the motions of slicing or shooting or choking—to the air, to dummies, to throw pillows. He dressed like them, ate like them, groomed like them; he tried to crawl into their skin to chase the feeling, the rush of a kill that drove them again and again to their next victim. 

Mulder had felt that feeling, had hunted it. 

In each of his pursuits, sinking down and down into the dark recess of his own mind to entice the pure evil of monsters to come and play, he lost a little bit of himself along the way. He wasn’t such a pure person to start with, too much tragedy and trauma in his childhood prevented that possibility, but years of service to the FBI had cracked him down the middle. Sometimes, he would be unrecognizable to those around him. Sometimes, his gift for assuming darkness consumed him and he locked himself away.

Sometimes, to mimic the perp, there was alcohol involved. Once, regrettably, pills. Stalking involved following in the footsteps of the suspect literally, either going through the motions of a victim or finding his own prey. For the worst of the crimes, rape and murder, he’d isolate himself completely from the outside world just to start to fathom the whys, the motives, the possibilities, the feelings. 

When he was on the hunt for the perp, truly on the chase, he didn’t sleep, he didn’t eat, he barely was able to function. If he took the time to return to reality it would be time wasted in stopping the criminal. It was different than the normal X file cases he was now used to. Those evoked a different thrill—one of discovery, of excitement, of something new or weird or even a new link in the greatest mysteries of his life, and Scully was right by his side.

But this wasn’t an X file. This was a hunt. A chase. A methodical and painful and excruciating pouring over details, legwork, paper shuffling, staring.

In the past with these type of VCS cases, Mulder had looked through the scope of a rifle at an innocent crowd, basking in the god-like power he held, able to pick off anyone, trying to feel his way around the mind of a sharpshooter who killed at random so he could prevent his next strike.

He’d walked through the worst parts of cities, trying to blend in, listening to the screams and witnessing the horror of underground life, of gangs, of mobs, of cults, participating in it.

He had to do it. Each time that this particular skillset was called upon, either by his superiors or himself, he hesitated. Just for a moment. Why me, he’d think, why does it have to be me who gets so damaged, so hurt, who spirals uncontrollably and is left alone to pick up the pieces after each closed case? But it was a compulsion. Once that part of his mind was unlocked, there was no way of stopping his obsessive pursuit of the truth.

But at what cost? The cost of becoming the monster himself, the pain of slipping back into his normal life, the one where he went to work every day and made jokes and got the job done no don’t think about what it feels like to strangle someone to death, to feel their life slip away, to hold that power over the innocent and helpless. 

It was no surprise that Mulder’s soul was damaged goods. Years of personal tragedies would fuck anyone up, but each time his profiling took him over the edge, he never quite got all the pieces of himself back. They lay scattered like stale crumbs over case files and prison sentences.

Mulder was assigned to this most recent case almost against his will. He and Scully were just about to head out to the desert of Arizona to track down a lead on a missing time case when Skinner called them into his office. The Violent Crimes unit was requesting, well, demanding, that he help out. They needed him. He was their only chance. The usual. What once was a confidence and ego boost for him only hurt him now.

Scully had simultaneously been ordered to catch up on paperwork, which Mulder felt bad about because it was mainly his fault there was a backlog to begin with. It also meant that she wasn’t there to help him on the case, to take care of him. To be there for him.

He’d gotten used to that over the years, of Scully being there to pull him back, to steady him as he peered over the edge into the abyss. She was his anchor, his light. And now, with this new, uneven and uncertain ground they were on—feelings were laid bare, tiny steps toward each other had been taken. This temporary assignment was just the thing to screw it all up.

But this case, it hit him harder than one had in a long time. Maybe it was the isolation without Scully by his side, maybe it was the hopelessness of the case itself. A serial stabber was attacking all over the city, seemingly at random, leaving some for dead while many survived. It was one of the most unique cases Mulder had studied in recent years—the unsub carried around a knife, possibly multiple ones at once, and just stabbed people. 

But of course, it wasn’t so simple. 

At first there was a pattern. A handful of men and women who were connected through jobs, hobbies and friendships. After that string of connected victims, the stabber apparently gained a taste for his crime and began hunting at random as soon as his targeted victims ran out. He was unpredictable, untraceable. Everywhere and nowhere at once. A shadow. 

Malls, homes, sidewalks, and businesses were all fair game. Morning, noon, or night, young and old and in between. There was no race preference, sex preference, orientation or class preference. 

In some cases, the victim survived, in others they bled out, alone and scared. 

It was the same move each time—one knife wound, stabbed to the hilt of the blade or as far as the knife would go in one strike, the knife left behind in the victim. Imbedded in muscle, in organs, in bone. By this point there was no hesitation in the process. His moves were cold, calculated, and carried out with swift efficiency.

A 23-year-old Chinese-American woman was stabbed in the leg on a dark college campus by an unknown assailant, dressed in black, average height and built. Survived. 

A 75-year-old Nigerian grandfather on vacation was stabbed in the chest in his family’s unlocked, ground floor apartment across the city. Dead. 

A 39-year-old white woman was stabbed while walking her dog in broad daylight; a 12-year-old boy was stabbed behind the bleachers of his school during gym as he went to get a drink of water; a 60-year-old gay man outside of his work in the morning; a 33-year-old homeless man in the back of a line for soup; a 30-something nonbinary person on their way from the gym. And now several more all scattered throughout the city as the attacker seemingly escalated without any reason, driven by his own psychosis. 

People going to work, coming home from appointments, at school, just trying to live their lives.

So far, he had managed to kill only four of the victims and yet, even though there were so many surviving, there had been no ID on the attacker. Just white male, average height, dark clothing. Fast. Silent. Inconspicuous.

VCS was convinced that the only way to catch the guy was to find out how he was connected to the first six victims who all knew each other. They concentrated on that and, when nothing came up and leads turned dead, despite all his victims surviving, Mulder was brought in.

VCS had nothing. Mulder had next to nothing. It had been almost a month since the attacks began and they were still going strong—up to 19 victims total. They had tried to track down manufacturers of the knives, but they were from all over and of all ages. No pawn shops or retailers in the area had recorded an unusual number of knives being bought or stolen. 

The stabber likely had a collection of unknown size that he was disposing in the bodies of innocent strangers, and the city soon became frightened of what the media was calling the D.C. Stabber, which wasn’t the most creative name Mulder had ever seen but had the effect intended. Everyone was scared. 

It seemed like there was no place to hide, no pattern to track, no leads to follow. Three one week, four the next, half a week of silence then two in one day, then one a day for the past week. 

The stabber wasn’t intent on murder, but it was likely that he wanted to leave a mark on his victims, a permanent reminder. But his motive was still elusive. 

Mulder had been assigned to the case for the past week, and he’d only slept a handful of hours. His base was the FBI building, a step up from his usual digs at a seedy motel or a local sheriff’s station, but he still only had access to crappy coffee, bad sandwiches and uncomfortable chairs.  
He paced in front of the pictures and map he’d pinned to the secluded conference room wall, one of two that he and the VCS taskforce had taken over. He had tacked up the crime scene pictures in chronological order and connected them each to a thumbtack placement on a map of DC. Pictures of the victims stared back at him, almost too crowded due to their high number. Overlapping faces. Innocent people. Hurting. 

He knew there had to be a connection somehow, and he was currently trying to find a locus of movement, a center to the web. 

Mentally he discarded the first victims that were connected. The stabber’s movements were planned for those deliberate attacks, but even then, nothing was apparent.

Mulder took off his glasses, needing to wear them after the first two days dried out his contacts beyond hope, and wiped the sleep and frustration from his eyes before replacing them. 

The pins fanned out from the center in all directions, wildly spiraling, but not in any traceable order. There was no gap in the center to suggest that he was from there and moving away. 

Mulder stopped his pacing in front of the map. It was dark in the hall outside the room, and the city through the windows behind him was trying to light up the dead of night, but the conference room was lit so brightly his eyes burned, corresponding with aches down his body, too long for any comfort on the low couch in the corner. 

Male. Average height. Average build. Dark clothing. Left handed. Strikes at random. Knife collection, possibly handed down from a father or other relative and linked to bad memories bad feelings bad circumstances he was dispelling by not just stabbing people but leaving the knives in the bodies. 

Mulder worked for days building up his profile, and he needed to follow it through to find out more—transportation, patterns, anything. 

Mulder took a shaky breath and closed his eyes. 

He was standing in front of a collection, spread out over his kitchen table. He felt the hate within him—no, not hate. Resentment. His father (father figure, uncle, grandfather, someone) had been cruel to him. Taunted him with these knives before. Maybe even hurt him. He felt the anger overwhelm him—his father wasn’t there to take out his rage on, or to temper it with violence. His father was ruined by the business world what wouldn’t listen to his ideas, instead rejected him, ruined him and his family. He had been rejected too. Not his fault, not their fault. The world’s fault.

The knives taunted him now. They jeered him with their presence, the one thing left to him, given to him, the only thing his family name had left to it after his father was ruined, after he was left with nothing, after he died? Was killed? Killed himself? No money. No reputation. His father had abandoned him, drank himself into oblivion, drained them of cash and credit, gambled away everything else in despair because society wouldn’t accept his genius, his talent. 

Thrown himself off a bridge because he couldn’t handle it anymore, because the world had been so cruel to him, had mistreated him, didn’t care for him or for his son. The world was against them, had always been. 

Everything was gone except these knives, his legacy, his identity. Angry at the world.

The rage blinded him, filling his vision only with the glint of the knives in front of him. 

This is what was left of his family, his father, and it was time to take revenge against the society that had forcibly made them suffer. 

In the conference room, Mulder stood stock still with his eyes squeezed shut. A faint tremble in his hand moved up his arm as he tensed his muscles, fist clenching around air. 

In his mind he looked at the killer’s collection, at his knives. Ran his gloved hands over the hilts, selecting his next weapon. 

He’d clean it thoroughly, removing any trace of fingerprints or DNA, polishing it until gleaming, and conceal it on his person—likely in a hilt in his pocket or jacket, somewhere hidden but safe to himself, easily accessible when the moment came. 

Then he’d leave. Break free of the oppressive house apartment wherever his family could barely afford. Any time, it didn’t matter, he didn’t have a job, nothing regular. He just had to get rid of the knives, get rid of the problem of the people around him who had let down his family, his father, for so many years, unrelenting. Mark them permanently with the reminder. A hobby. A habit.

He'd step out of his cheap apartment, filling with unrestrained adrenaline and want want want to get to his next victim. To push metal into unsuspecting flesh and leave it there.

Patience. He headed out into the world—day or night it didn’t matter, it was time. His heart thumped along with his thudding footstep to—where? A target? A random guilty person?

Mulder cursed under his breath, suddenly feeling himself back in the conference room under too-bright fluorescents, smelling himself, feeling the ache ache ache in his spine, his head. His profile was built until here, the attacker’s process after preparing was out of reach. Where would he go? How? What ran through his head as he stalked, as he chose his next target?

No one had reported a strange car in the neighborhood, and the limited surveillance tapes hadn’t shown any correlation in vehicles in the area, so he likely didn’t have a car. 

Walking would take a long time, but wasn’t out of the question. This guy had time, he wasn’t constrained by a regular schedule that schooling or a job would create. 

Public transportation was another option. Taxis were too expensive for this often use. Public transportation. Hiding in plain sight. Blending in. Buses and the subway made likelier options. 

Wait—the subway! Mulder’s eyes flashed open, immediately watering against the harsh light, the stale air, and traced the map in front of him again—the murders spiraled out and followed the subway system almost exactly. That’s how he was getting around, riding the subway until he got bored or felt like it was time to get off, or in proper places for when he truly targeted someone. That part was still fuzzy. He could easily hide in the crowd fleeing the scene as well, moving back underground. Maybe there was a trigger, someone on the subway, but it wasn’t important. Now all they had was more surveillance tapes to look over. 

Shit. It was nothing. The first break they’d had in days and it would prove useless to the immediate future. He was no closer to finding the perp than hours ago. 

Mulder took a deep breath, stumbling backward until he hit the conference table to lean on. He ran his hands through his hair, his glasses tucked in one hand so he could rub his face too, the stereotypical picture of a detective at his wits end complete with an untucked white shirt, half a week’s beard, loose tie, and rolled up sleeves. Exhausted. Defeated. Alone.


	2. Chapter 2

He half sat on the desk for god knows how long, holding his face in his hands, trying to press away the tension headache behind his eyes and running over all the details again when he felt a hand on his arm. 

A touch so light could only be Scully. Mulder visibly relaxed, almost deflating, snaking his hands down his face and looking at the blurry but refreshing sight in front of him.

“Hey Scully,” he rasped, suddenly feeling thirsty. He slid on his glasses and his partner came into focus before him as if a mirage shimmering in the desert. 

“Mulder,” she murmured, moving her hand up from his forearm to rest on his forehead. Her fingers automatically began to stroke his hair. “You look horrible.”

Mulder gave a wry smile, silently agreeing with her but happy to have a brief reprieve from his self-induced mania to find this guy. That’s another thing he could count on her for, he didn’t have to isolate forever in a case like this anymore. He had her to ground him, however briefly.

“When did you last sleep?” Scully, satisfied that he wasn’t running a fever, ran a comforting hand through his hair and down to his shoulder, steadying him. He looked like he was about to keel over, so she stepped into his space, as close as she dared in the FBI building.

“Um, what is today?” he answered. 

Scully sighed. “It’s Thursday morning, eleven am. They’re about to hold a press conference and they want you down there to talk about the task force, reassure the public. The VCS director saw me in the lobby and sent me to find you. It’s getting crazy out there, Mulder.”

He sighed again, and followed up with a jaw-cracking yawn that make his eyes water, feeling the last remaining bit of energy leave his frame. “How long do I have?”

The way he said that made Scully think of a patient expecting a death sentence and it made her shudder. Scully was worried about him, feeling guilty that she hadn’t been there the last few days to help him, but now that his paperwork was caught up (and damn him for leaving it for so long), she was able to assist on the case. 

“About an hour. Enough to shave and change your shirt.”

Mulder slumped forward, suddenly questioning all of his life choices and feeling every hour he had been awake. 

His forehead touched Scully’s collarbone and it took all of her power not to just scoop him up and forcibly carry him home for a meal and some sleep. Instead, her worry pooled low and unsettled in her stomach as it had every time she saw Mulder work himself into this state, even if a part of her deep down appreciated the rolled up sleeves and glasses look. 

“Come on, Mulder, up you go.” She handed him his go bag from downstairs that he didn’t see her bring in. “I’ll meet you back up here with food in half an hour, okay?”

Mulder nodded plaintively and slumped off toward the restroom in the corner of the room. 

Scully looked around at the mess her partner had been living in. Papers were strewn over the long table in no perceivable order. The wall he’d been facing was a mire of string, pins and bloody crime scene photos. Well, not all were bloody. When a knife is stabbed into live flesh and the ripped back out, that is when blood spatter happens. This murderer left the blade in, trapping the blood and damage, stalling the bleeding. Leaving his mark. 

It did look like chaos, thought Scully, and she wondered how Mulder was keep it all in his big beautiful, chaotic mind. 

Not wanting to waste any time, Scully headed down to the food cart in the lobby and bought a sandwich and coffee for Mulder so he could at least pretend to be alive at the press conference. She wasn’t sure why they needed him other than to have proof they were putting their best men on the case. He was a recognizable face to the press anyway. Maybe he’d give a statement. 

Twenty minutes later, Mulder came out of the bathroom looking mildly more human than earlier. Dark circles still marred his face under his glasses but he perked up when Scully was still there with his food. 

“You need to get some sleep after this, you’re no use to anyone if you pass out from exhaustion.” Scully leaned over him and gently slid his glasses off his face. They were smudged and newly flecked with water and hair from shaving, and she took her time cleaning them. 

Mulder nodded through devouring his sandwich and coffee. “There’s literally nothing I can think of to track this guy, Scully. It’s all just so—random.”

“Looks like it,” she muttered. Scully held his glasses up to the harsh light and, satisfied at the cleanliness, set them gently next ot the destruction of Mulder’s first meal in days. She gestured toward the wall, refocusing her attention. “I’ve been reassigned to this case now since I got your paperwork done, and thanks for that by the way. You have to go home after the press conference, to catch some sleep, and I’ll look over everything with a new set of eyes.”

Mulder had the decency to look sheepish about the paperwork, but agreed to the plan, truly feeling as bad as he looked an hour ago. 

“I’ve been staring at it nonstop, but I’ve barely added to the profile. They’d worked out the basics before I was even consulted. His knife collection is likely a direct gift or inheritance from a dead relative, probably his father or grandfather, possibly an uncle or cousin. He feels anger at the city, likely just society in general, and truly believes that everyone actively worked against his family, which is why they are dead and in financial, if not social, ruin. The first victims had direct connections to his revenge, but he’s taking it out on society as a whole now. The last thing I realized is that he’s using the subway system as a means of transport to and from the crime scenes.” Mulder finished his sandwich and outlined the routes on the map with a sharpie as he filled Scully in. “There’s still no pattern to track.”

They stood next to each other, staring at the map and papers in front of them as if the answer would just jump off the page at any moment. Just as Mulder was beginning to relax back into his own mind fully, thanks to Scully’s comforting presence, it was time to head downstairs to the press conference. 

“I’ll see you after,” he said as shrugged on his suit jacket. 

“Only for a minute, then you go home. You need to rest if you’re going to catch this guy.”

Mulder waved dismissively on his way out, but deep down he knew Scully wouldn’t hesitate at dragging him home by his ear, and he loved her for it.

The press conference was standard and made Mulder think of his old VCS days, when the cases up and down the east coast got so out of hand that the public was demanding answers to the point of FBI marketing being a problem. They were useless information wise—it was just to keep up appearances and reassure the public that they were working on the case, and of course to warn everyone that there was a crazy person out there stabbing people for Christ’s sake. 

During the short conference, Mulder stood just to the side of SAC Yang. After Yang’s generic statement to the public that Mulder had heard a million times, it was his turn as lead profiler to give tips to the public. His name still carried weight in the media from his past successes in solving unsolvable cases. 

Yang introduced him and stepped to the side to let him speak, and Mulder stepped up to the podium, a hand on either side the only thing keeping him standing up straight.

“As SAC Yang just said, I am the lead profiler on this case, and I have some tips for everyone watching to follow. If you think you’re exempt, you are not. The stabber targets anyone in any demographic. We know the suspect only attacks people when they are alone so, again, try to be in a group of two or more people at all times. All. Times. Keep your cell phones charged and on you, and always be aware of your surroundings. We’ve recently gathered that this man is using public transportation, most likely the subway system, to move around the city which means he will approach on foot. There is no reason to avoid the subway system, again, if you are in a group and vigilant. Even in groups, be aware of everyone around you and do not be afraid to report anything or anyone suspicious. It is better to be wrong than to be sorry. If you see anyone matching the description SAC Yang gave you, call the police or this number on your screen immediately and find a crowded area. Thank you.”

It was just a version of the same speech he’d given over and over again to a crowd of reporters on similar cases. Mulder stepped back as Yang fielded questions from the reporters. It was the standard volley of them—what steps are you taking in your investigation, do you have any solid leads, et cetera. They soon became repetitive and almost afraid, as Mulder noticed. The public was scared and so were the reporters. To have an assailant be so utterly random and unpredictable was something they hadn’t faced before, and everyone had license to be afraid.

Yang began sputtering at the repeated questions and Mulder realized he was losing control of the crowd, so he stepped in to take over lest Yang became sloppy and got emotional. He’d had about as much sleep as Mulder this week, but he couldn’t afford to say something disastrous to the public. Yang was a good guy, on Mulder’s side for years in all sorts of bureau bullshit the x files had gone through, and Mulder took any chance to repay the favor. He put on his serious voice once again for the cameras, wanting nothing more than to curl up and go to sleep, and tried to calm the reporters down. 

“Listen,” started Mulder in a tone that quieted the crowd. “I know that this is a scary situation. This guy, whoever he is, is a failure. He’s a human being, not some monster that lurks under your bed at night to be mythologized into something powerful and unstoppable—and believe me, I would know if that was the case. He can only hurt you if you’re unprepared—he’s not physically nor mentally capable of taking on more than one person at a time. As we’ve seen with the attacks on children and the elderly,” he said bitingly, “he is a coward and likely weak. He cannot ultimately win at this pursuit, and if we as a city remain aware and stay together, watching each other’s backs, we will find him and stop his petty tyranny on our citizens. Thank you, that is all.”

Mulder left the podium closely followed by Yang and the others. Once out of earshot of the bustling crowd Yang stopped Mulder. 

“Thanks for that, man,” he said. 

“It’s no problem,” Mulder sighed, his momentary burst of energy fast waning. “I’m about to catch some sleep, and it looks like you need it as much as I do.” He clapped Yang on the shoulder and felt sleep start to invade his consciousness. Just another half hour and he’d be home. 

Mulder and Yang went their separate ways in the hall. He was entering once again into that liminal headspace, one part of his mind in the killer’s profile, even half asleep, the other barely managing to keep functioning in a normal way. On autopilot he walked back to the conference room where Scully would be pouring over the files. Without remembering walking there, he was suddenly looking at the wall again. 

“Hey, good press conference, I caught most of it” said Scully from next to him. “Are you trying to provoke the suspect? Make him make a mistake?”

“Not intentionally, but at this point I’ll take anything new. As much as I hate to say it, we need another victim. One that sees him, or at least has more information.”

Scully was silent for a moment, mulling his words over as she accepted them. “Good job getting Yang out of there when you did, he looked like he was about to collapse.”

It took a moment for Mulder to respond, distracted by something he saw on the wall, and when he did it was in a monotone. “He’s tired. He’s been working on this as much as I have but for longer. I think he’s going home to regroup.”

Scully lightly bumped him with her shoulder and said in a no-nonsense tone, “That’s what you need to be doing too. Do you need a ride home or are you taking a cab?”

Mulder almost protested but knew she was right. His vision was blurring in real time and everything in the files and on the wall was seared into his skull—he could at least have the comfort of his couch to cradle him as his mind dissociated from reality and delved into the profile he was still constructing piece by piece. 

“Hey, seriously, I’m worried about you Mulder,” added Scully. She came in front of him again, repeating their earlier stance. His gaze went straight over the top of her head, not looking at anything in particular, unfocused. She put her hands on his upper arms, squeezing them and rubbing a little to get his attention. Mulder’s head swung down and met her gaze helplessly. “I don’t want you to get hurt with all this. You have to take care of yourself. It’s the only way this case will get solved. Do you want me to come with you?”

Mulder sighed and relaxed his stance again. “No, you should stay. See what you can find out.” Only an hour and a half had passed since they stood like this, but it felt like weeks. In reality it had been a week since they’d done anything more than what they were doing now and Mulder was starting to long for it. Moments with Scully were never enough, not while he was like this. He tried to listen, to internalize her words and believe them. 

Ache radiating from the base of his spine up through his head and across his shoulders, Mulder made sure he had his wallet and his keys and shuffled out of the conference room with one last look at where Scully was shifting through some files left on the desk. Home. Sleep. Then back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on Tumblr at viceversawrites


	3. Chapter 3

Mulder had either drifted off or completely zoned out in the cab ride to his house because he was there before he realized. It was dark for just past noon, storm clouds gathering and rising humidity making the air oppressive. His glasses fogged up momentarily when he opened the cab door, casting a haze on his already bleary-eyed vision.

A wave of solid air hit him, making it hard to breathe from the cab to the apartment’s entrance. The atmosphere was oppressive and dark, weighing on him on top of his exhaustion, his frustration. The weight became too much and something in Mulder’s resolve broke. Sleep. He needed to rest. 

Aching, he made his way to his apartment, not considering taking the stairs, stumbling through the hall, through his door, disrobing to his boxers and undershirt as he went. He ran his hands through his hair, repulsed at the greasiness of too many days without showering. He briefly wondered if he had the energy to shower, but the risk of passing out was too high. 

He flopped onto the unkempt bed, awake long enough to emit a long-suffering sigh before he slipped into unconsciousness. 

-

Scully rarely felt overwhelmed anymore. At this point in her career she had faced seemingly insurmountable odds of survival, solved some of the most off-the-rail cases in history, and done it all in three-inch heels and despite the raging sexism of her chosen profession. 

This case, the sheer volume of victims and files and possibilities, was something else. The conference room she had kicked Mulder out of was a mess of information and stale air. Files, papers, and notes were piled haphazardly all over the long table, the extra chairs shoved against the wall no doubt to make room for pacing. 

She didn’t know where to start. Yang had briefed her on the case originally, and Mulder had updated her each time she came up to check on him, but she didn’t know where to start. Her background wasn’t in profiling, and there weren’t any bodies to reexamine at this point either. 

Scully organized the files chronologically and sat down to go through them, focusing on the victims, wounds, knifes, and trace evidence each held in common. She kept a chart to cross reference the data, but it became clear halfway through the stack that there was nothing. Still she kept going until all the files had been charted, just in case. It would help her get familiarized with the case files at the least. Maybe something would come of it.

Diligently she worked through the afternoon, stopping only for coffee and a bathroom break. Scully rubbed her eyes as she closed the most recent file, a 42-year-old widow who was stabbed in the side, still recovering in the hospital. No common threads. She took a few minutes to sit and digest before moving on. 

Mulder had requested that all of the knives be brought up to him and they were lined up on the far side of the table. Stretching her legs, Scully perused the selection. She tried to put her mind into that of the stabber, trying to pick up on any pattern or feeling she got from looking at the knives in front of her. 

She went over what Mulder said again, the suspect, feeling like he needed to get revenge on society. She tried to imagine, being poor, feeling like she was constantly being judged for her lower-class status. Not having the money, the means, the power. Scully suppressed the part of her that would naturally try to work harder and rise above despite the oppression or deficits she had and put herself into the shoes of a lower-class white, straight male whose ego was fragile enough to incite the rage it would take to take this type of action. 

She sighed again, noticing her bias and judgment and opened her eyes. This part of investigating was an area that she couldn’t comfortably reach like Mulder or other profilers could. She relied on facts, on science and concrete evidence. Not conjecture, not like this. 

Scully turned her focus again to the knives, not seeing a pattern in selection or in order. The blades ranged in size from two to six inches. The hilts varied, some protected and others smooth. The width and type of the blades were different as well, thick and thin, serrated and smooth. Switchblades, a few small hunting knives, and even a few pocket knives. 

She pushed past the wave of frustration again and considered the reasoning behind the random knives. It meant that they didn’t matter, there wasn’t a ritual or meaning behind the blades themselves, it was all in the motive, the feeling. He chose these knives because they were on hand, they were there, making it easy.

The knives were just a tool to carry out his plot. He was leaving his mark on society physically and mentally. 

But when would it stop? Why wasn’t he leaving any notice of who he was—his handiwork was still anonymous. Did he want to be known? Would he escalate from this point? Would he stop if he ran out of knives? Would he move to a different weapon?

There were still too many questions, not enough evidence. This is where profilers were so needed on these cases. To understand the distorted mind, to conjecture and realize subconscious patterns. It just wasn’t in Scully’s skillset, and she knew it.

Scully moved and unconsciously mirrored Mulder’s lean as she studied the map on the wall, looking at everything from another angle. 

Mulder’s drawn-in subway map was where she started. The transport. The suspect had a subway card and likely lived near an entrance. Scully picked up a marker and connected all of the crime scenes to the nearest station, all within mere blocks. There were several stations where there were no crime scenes. 

Scully turned back to the table and unearthed another map where she had organized the mess earlier, one with the subway system already mapped out and sat down. She marked the stations where there were no crime scenes, rationalizing that one of them was likely his points of entry. Reluctantly, she disregarded the stops that were in the business district and the popular tourist stops. Two more were crossed off that were in more wealthy areas of the city, firmly placing the suspect into the projects or the poorer parts of DC. This was assuming he’d only go on these stabbing runs from his own neighborhood and not from a secondary location, like a job or a friend’s house in another part of town. 

Which did practically nothing to narrow down the suspect pool. 

Scully worked through the data sheet again and tried to narrow it down further, thinking that she could eliminate another stop or two based on the direct lines to the other stations, but nothing came of that either. No wonder Mulder had been so defeated earlier. Scully felt that, despite working for hours on this that she was no closer than the entire team had been earlier that day. She had narrowed down two, maybe three stations where the suspect would most likely be getting on the metro system. That’s it. It was nothing.

Before she knew it, hours had passed since Mulder left and she noticed that the storm that had been brewing all day was letting loose. Scully gathered her things and went to see if anyone else from the team was in the other rooms on the floor but no one was there, the lights turned off. Yang probably sent everyone home including himself to rest and regroup. 

After a week of nonstop paperwork by herself and a frustrating afternoon spent pouring over files alone, Scully wanted to do the same, but when she got to her car she felt a familiar urge to check in on Mulder. She was worried that he hadn’t slept, that he was obsessing and in a dangerous headspace like he did on these types of cases. 

Besides, she missed him. If she was lucky maybe they could nap together, maybe share a quiet meal. She could help him come back into his own head again, comfort him. Nothing too serious had resulted in this subtle shift of their relationship, not yet, and she knew it wouldn’t as long as this case was ongoing. Right now it was comfortable, unspoken. Touches. 

Decision made, she drove to Mulder’s apartment. It was verging on eight at night, the bulk of the storm having passed and leaving a light rain behind. Her stomach grumbled, maybe she’d order Chinese once she got to his apartment and they could talk over the details again. She’d like nothing more than to avoid the topic but she knew how Mulder’s mind worked. 

Traffic gave her no leeway. The streets were unusually clogged as if people forgot how to drive when it rained and it added almost 20 minutes onto her normal time getting to Mulder’s. 

To add insult to insult, her umbrella was in the office and she had to unsuccessfully dodge raindrops to the door, getting thoroughly soaked in the process. 

What a great day this was turning into. 

Scully trudged to the elevator, refusing to take the stairs at this point, and made it to Mulder’s door without incident. Dripping onto the hall carpet and feeling utterly sad for herself she knocked pitifully on his door. Visions of curling up on the couch with Mulder drifted through her mind. She only waited a second before pulling out her own key, hoping he was getting the much-needed rest he deserved. 

She opened the door and was starting to walk in when the door caught on something. Thinking it was a box or something she just pushed until she could get in to the dark apartment. Scully shrugged off her soaked coat and hung it on one of the pool ball coat hangers before flipping on the light so she wouldn’t trip over what was in the floor. She gasped. 

It wasn’t a box. 

Mulder was lying face down on the floor before her, blood slowly trickling out into a small pool beneath him, a knife hilt glistening, pointing grotesquely at the door as if to say look at me, look what I’ve done. Shock. Pain. Why him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on Tumblr at viceversawrites


	4. Chapter 4

Yes, Mulder had crawled into the mind of pure evil willingly on multiple occasions, all in an effort to solve the case, to stop the madness. 

But that’s where his profiling experience ended. He never had to delve into the mind of the victim in order to solve the case. 

Mulder had never imagined what it felt like to be stalked, to be powerless, to be shot or taken hostage or stabbed in the side with a serrated blade. Sure, some of those things had happened to him in the past, some more than once, but it wasn’t part of Mulder the Profiler, Golden Boy of the VCS. It wasn’t important to the investigation to get into the mind of those killed or traumatized by the bad guy, it wasn’t helpful to track his movements, to find out his next move. 

Those were the people he had to protect, not understand and apprehend.

Now, laying on the floor and slowly bleeding out, he didn’t have to imagine. 

Mulder had passed out practically as soon as he got home, barely coherent enough to strip down to his boxers and undershirt, just happy that Scully was there to remind him that he was a human that needed food and sleep to perform well at his job, not a profiling machine that he had been treated as in the past. 

Some hours after falling into a dreamless sleep, Mulder jerked awake. His body still throbbed, but it was muted thanks to however much rest he was able to get. He listened with the alertness that only comes when thrust out of a deep sleep, alarmed for some unknown reason as he took in his surroundings. Remembering the day, the week, the case, he sighed and relaxed again before pushing himself up. His circumstances were enough for him to be on edge, even subconsciously.

He made it halfway to the kitchen, eyes only half-open under crooked glasses, intent on starting coffee so he could get back to work, when someone knocked on his door. Only Scully would be at his door right now, either with an update or food or, his stomach grumbled, hopefully both. He changed course, nearly tripping his overly tired body on discarded shoes before flipping the locks he didn’t remember engaging and opening the door. 

The second it took him to register that his lanky blond man was, in fact, not Scully and was, in fact, brandishing a very large knife at him was a second too long. 

Before he tried to react, the man charged forward, knocking Mulder off balance and sinking the knife to the hilt of Mulder’s right flank. Still in panic mode, frozen with shock and sleep, with adrenaline coursing through him, Mulder took half a second to register that he had a knife in his body and then tried to attack back. 

His mind raced in a flash, disconnected from the physical. This was different, he thought. The suspect was knocked off his usual motive and specifically went for him. This was Mulder’s chance to do something, anything. Even being in his presence was helpful, and Mulder’s wide eyes caused by fear and pain latched on to every detail they could, his law enforcement training taking over while his body was in shock. He couldn’t feel, but for a split second he could think.

He reached out with his left arm, his right instinctually going to where the knife was, and tried to grab the suspect, but he was pushed backwards. Instinct took over again and it was all Mulder could do to turn so he wouldn’t land on the hilt. 

Suddenly it hit him, the pain, the burning deep, too deep, inside of him and it took his breath away. He had no idea how much it would hurt, how it could burn like this, like he was on fire. He couldn’t focus on anything else and then he was out. 

\- -

The intruder, breathing heavily and not used to sticking around this long, took a steadying breath. He shoved Mulder’s legs out of the way so he could close the door, adjusted his hoodie, and calmly walked down the hallway, out of the building, and into the night. As he walked, a feeling of calm washed over him. Yes. Good. Again. 

\- -

Dana Scully was not expecting to walk in on a crime scene. 

She was expecting to walk in to her best friend and partner with whom she recently started a romantic relationship’s apartment, wake him up, order takeout, and talk through this case that had the city in its grips with no end in sight. Maybe even cuddle with him a little. Provide and take some comfort.

Instead, Dana Scully was holding pressure on his side with the scarf from her neck around the hilt of a knife with one hand and calling for an ambulance with the other. 

She gave the operator her badge number before launching into the situation. “I have an FBI Agent down, 2630 Hegal Place, Alexandria, apartment 42. Knife wound to the right side, unknown length of blade. Unknown length of time. Threat seems to be gone.” A pause, and then rushed: “Yes, fourth floor, door’s open. I’m holding pressure around the hilt. I’m a medical doctor and I’m going to hang up now to attend to him thank you.”

Scully dropped her phone and repositioned to be closer to his head, holding pressure along the way—not too harshly lest she disturb the knife but enough to stem the blood flow. It had already stained his white shirt a deep red, circling the wound, spreading slowly but steadily.

Mulder was breathing, but unconscious. That much she ascertained immediately after wrapping the scarf around the wound. 

She reached up now to check his pulse, fast and thready, likely due to blood loss, and realized he was probably in shock or heading there fast. Twisting, she tugged her coat off of the hook above her and covered as much of his body as she could, his bare legs up to his waist, wondering in vain how long he had been laying here, how the stabber got to him, what happened while she was meandering at the bureau and on the way here. 

Mulder stirred beneath her and she pushed her thoughts away, realizing that she had been rambling steadily to Mulder’s prone form beneath her. 

“It’s going to be okay, Mulder, you’re okay. I’m here and help is on the way and you’re fine, I promise, you’re going to be just fine.”

Mulder’s head jerked and he moaned. From Scully’s point of view, she could only see half of his face as it scrunched up in pain. She wanted to comfort him but her hands were busy holding the scarf in place. 

“Scu-?”

“Mulder it’s me, don’t move, I’m here. You’re in your apartment, you’ve been stabbed, help is on the way and you’re going to be okay.” She spoke in soothing tones even as the cloth beneath her hands became tacky with warm blood. The blade must’ve torn the wound wider when he fell if it was bleeding this heavily while still inside. “Try not to move, okay?”

“Jesus,” he gritted his teeth, starting a harsh pant through the pain. Coming around on the floor of your apartment with a knife wound was not the most pleasant way to wake up. “You ‘kay?” he managed. 

“Yes,” Scully huffed at his question, a little touched that he would think of her when he was like this. “Mulder do you remember what happened? Anything about the suspect?” She knew she had to keep him talking, focused on anything else, even as he started to shiver from the shock and blood loss. She wished she could flip him over, look into his eyes and talk to him normally, hug him, comfort him, not lean over his back in the half light of the hallway. 

Mulder visibly tried to rally his strength, a second wind of adrenaline coursing through his veins, battling the shock, pushing past the building sharp pressure in his torso. “Don’t know—when, knock at door. Short blond hair. 5’ 10’’ maybe. Skinny, like—like Langley. Black, ugh dammit,” he took a breath. “Black hoodie, short clean nails, ugh, fucking-big-knife.”

Scully tried to internalize the image—wait. “Short nails? Mulder he wasn’t wearing gloves? Mulder?”

He started breathing sharply again, shaking harder and Scully put more effort into holding the blade still. 

“Come on, Mulder, please, breathe, it’s going to be okay. Breathe through the pain, you’re in shock, help is on the way.”

Scully kept up the string of reassurances until the paramedics arrived, abjectly ignoring the hot tears coursing down her cheeks. She barely heard them thumping down the hallway but quickly took control of the situation. 

“Dana Scully, FBI, I’m a medical doctor,” she introduced herself as the EMTs surrounded her. “Time of attack unknown, he’s in shock. Looks like the wound has torn at least partially and is bleeding.” 

The EMTs acknowledged her and smartly deferred to her expertise in the matter rather than fight her on it. 

She singled one of them out with a nod of her head. “You, I need a baggy to put over the hilt. This is evidence and we might get fingerprints or DNA.”

The EMT, shirt reading Montgomery, secured a bag around the hilt with a length of medical tape while the other one started prepping Mulder for transport. 

They worked together to carefully cut Mulder’s undershirt off of him and replace the scarf with a pressure bandage to keep the knife secure. The rolled Mulder further onto his side and he cried out, eyes wide open in shock and pain, and finally they could make eye contact. Mulder reached out and Scully caught his hand with her bloodied one. 

“We’re going to put you on the stretcher, alright?” She communicated care and love and worry in her gaze and he did as well as the paramedics shifted into place. 

They counted down and lifted him into the hall where the gurney was, Scully awkwardly following, still holding on. As the EMTs strapped him and set up an IV port, Scully rushedly assured him of her presence. 

“Hey, you’re okay. You’ve just lost some blood, they’re going to take you to the hospital.”

He rasped and she worried about his lungs, telling the paramedics so. 

“Come with me?” he managed, eyes glassy and face pale, still shaking a little from pain. He wished he could just pass out, it was too much, the pressure, the sharp sharp sharp pain. It was too much. Fuck, it was too much why couldn’t it just stop?

Scully looked around frantically, they were about to take him down. “Can I tag along?” she asked the lead responder. At his nod she kissed Mulder’s hand and let go of it so she could frantically gather her bag and phone from where it had fallen, leaving behind her now bloody coat. She contemplated locking Mulder’s door for a moment but didn’t want the crime scene crew to have to break in, so she closed the door and followed the gurney to the ambulance. 

She climbed in after Mulder was settled, thankful for the help of an EMT to leverage her up into the rig. The responder, his name tag said Stevens, hooked Mulder up to an IV with fluids and an injection of what looked like morphine to help him relax, and also bandaged a cut on his right arm that Scully hadn’t noticed, a shallow scrape of the blade before it disappeared into his flesh. The EMT covered him in a shock blanket, careful of the hilt still sticking gruesomely out of his side, and they settled in for the short ride to the hospital. 

Scully retook Mulder’s hand under the blanket as he stared up at her, awkwardly positioned on his side, not able to do much but breathe. 

“Can you remember anything else?” she asked, refocused on keeping him conscious. 

He shook his head slightly and winced. “No, didn’t say anything he, uh,” he squeezed his eyes, not being able to breathe deeply enough. “Smelled like, like take out and sweat. White guy. Blond.” 

Scully saw him visibly start to relax as the morphine hit him. “Scully he was so fast. I opened the door and the next thing—I knew I was on the ground.”

He looked at her with pleading eyes, saying he was sorry that this happened with his gaze. 

“Mulder this isn’t your fault, okay? You’re going to be okay.” 

He nodded, still looking scared and then with a shudder dropped off into a light unconsciousness. Scully knew it was in combination of the stress, shock, blood loss and medication but it was still not ideal. 

They arrived at the hospital and were out of the ambulance, in to the ER in no time at all. Scully barely kept up with the rush, trying not to drop her phone and bag but not lose sight of Mulder either. A nurse stopped her at the entrance to a room where Mulder was being surrounded and listened to the EMTs relay what they knew of the attack already, making sure they had all the info. 

She didn’t fight the nurse so she was left in peace, observing the doctors from the corner, wondering mildly how the night ended like this. 

The team of doctors made their plan and took Mulder away to get an x-ray and then up to surgery, and what they were saying calmed Scully. This was familiar—they had a plan and they didn’t seem too worried. 

As they wheeled him away she snagged the arm of who looked to be an intern on the case. He looked like he was going to protest but cowed under Scully’s glare and the flash of her badge.

“Agent Scully, FBI,” she introduced herself. “I know they told you this, but this is an FBI Agent and his injuries is directly linked to an ongoing investigation. I am directly putting you in charge of making sure that knife remains in that plastic bag and is further bagged for evidence once out of him. Do I make myself clear, Dr.” she glanced down at his name, “Dr. Feyler? This conversation will be going in my report.”

The young doctor nodded and scampered off. Scully didn’t feel guilty in intimidating the man but this was important. She knew this hospital would be fine undergoing procedure but having a wily intern with the fear of the law in him watching over things could only help her out.

She took a breath and looked around the ER, finding the nurses’ station and asking directions to the waiting area. Repressing her need to frantically call the bureau as she felt her control slipping she took a breath, thankful that the waiting area was almost deserted. She sat down in the corner, placing her things on the chair next to her, and dialed SAC Yang’s number. 

“Sir, it’s Scully. Yes, I know it’s late, but we have a new development. You’ll need to send a crime scene crew to Agent Mulder’s apartment. He was attacked this evening, I’m at General right now with him.” 

Yang was understandably taken aback by this news, sounding like he still hadn’t gotten the sleep even Mulder managed today. He said he’d be at the Bureau in half an hour. 

“I’ll be staying here with Mulder, sir. I am his doctor and partner. Can you please inform AD Skinner? I—I have to do some things here.” 

Yang agreed and was about to hang up when Scully had a sudden thought enter her exhausted mind. 

“Sir! Are you alone? You should have someone with you, or at least make sure you’re armed. Mulder’s attack obviously wasn’t random, and while you didn’t directly attack the suspect on air he definitely knows your name. You don’t need to be next.”

Yang hung up, newly vigilant, and Scully was satisfied that she was able to warn him just in case. She tucked her phone in her purse and finally caught sight of her hands, tacky with mostly-dried blood. She shuddered, grabbed her purse and went to clean up in a restroom nearby. 

Scully could feel her mind going stagnant once the water hit her hands. How many times had she been in this situation—rinsing Mulder’s blood off of her body? She never quite got used to it. Unbidden, she felt tears gather on her lashes again and fall into the swirling pink water before her. 

Dammit, Mulder, she thought. Dammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on Tumblr at viceversawrites !


	5. Chapter 5

Dana Scully was the perfect picture of composure, sitting with her back straight, hands folded, and legs crossed in the waiting room of a Washington, D.C. hospital like it was her job to do so. In fact, she took it as a job. She was sitting sentry for her partner and best friend and nothing was going to distract her from waiting. Scully was intensely focused on the waiting, on being there, because any thought of what was happening to Mulder, what had happened, was too much. On the dull headache emanating from behind her eyes. The scratchy feel of her right knee where his blood was still drying.

It was a lonely waiting room, only a few other people lingered, pacing back and forth with coffee and desperate phone calls. Scully was a center of calm in a rushed and emotional wing of the hospital, waiting as patiently as she could manage for an update on Mulder. Waiting.

This one felt different somehow, almost darker. It wasn’t an injury in the line of duty, it didn’t happen for the greater good or with any intent on Mulder’s part. It was an attack. It was personal and impersonal, it was random and planned. A vicious side effect of doing his job. 

It also was the first big event since this change in their relationship. Scully reluctantly acknowledged that their recent closeness affected the degree to which she was upset. This was one of the things she was afraid of, but they had always had a connection, a closeness. This hurdle of emotion wasn’t any worse than when Mulder had been hurt before. It just hit her with a little more sting.

Over an hour had passed since cleaning her hands and sitting, waiting, before Yang and Skinner approached Scully in the waiting room, not catching her far off gaze until they were practically in front of her. 

Scully stood to greet them, clearing her throat before she spoke. 

“Sirs,” she acknowledged. “I haven’t heard any updates on Agent Mulder’s condition.”

Skinner waved her to sit back down and the two head agents sat across from her. 

“We’ll need your official statement at some point Agent Scully, but what the hell happened? Last I heard Mulder was just getting some rest,” Yang prompted. 

Scully relayed what she knew of the attack from what Mulder managed to tell her, and the details about the knife left in his body for, her voice wavered, an unknown amount of time before she came by and discovered him in the entrance to his apartment, bleeding out. “He lost a good amount of blood by the time I arrived, and the blade is unknown to me in length or shape. Mulder described the weapon as, um, ‘big’ before he passed out.”

Yang and Skinner absorbed this information steadily and with resignation of two people regularly in charge of sending agents into danger. 

“Mulder,” her breath caught and she chastised herself, trying to hold it together in front of her superiors. She refocused and made eye contact, stiffening again in front of her superiors. “Mulder gave me a description of the attacker. Approximately 5’ 10’’, short blond hair, skinny. Black hoodie. But he was rushed this time, he made a mistake. He wasn’t wearing gloves like he had been before. Mulder said he had short nails, like they were meticulously taken care of, which means we should be able to pull prints off the knife as soon,” she swallowed, “as soon as they take it out of him. I made sure it was wrapped.”

Yang stood up and dialed someone from the VCU to come over for evidence collecting. Skinner sighed and tried to catch the eye of his agent, obviously in distress in front of him and hiding it poorly. 

“Scully, he’ll be okay. This is Mulder, he’s been through a hell of a lot worse.”

Scully half smiled at that, finding no real comfort in his words. Yes, he had. Both with and without her, and some because of her. But every outcome is different. When will their luck run out?

Minutes piled on top of one another in silence and Scully took strength in the notion that these two agents cared about Mulder’s wellbeing not just out of professional obligation but as friends. It will be nice for Mulder, to know that he still is not alone in this world as much as his past has beat that idea into him. 

The crime scene techs arrived minutes before the same intern Scully intimidated came with an update and the knife, carefully sheathed in a few layers of sterile plastic bags, the original bag still rubber banded around the hilt. The right people signed the chain of evidence documentation and Scully caught a glimpse of it before the VCU took it away with orders from Yang to rush a fingerprint analysis. 

It was big. At least six or seven inches long, half serrated on one side, an inch and a half thick. Vicious looking. Still bloody.

Jesus. 

Dr. Feyler, visibly relieved that he wasn’t in charge of evidence any longer turned to Scully, only glancing at Skinner and Yang before speaking. 

“Agent Mulder’s surgery went well. The blade bypassed most of his organs without injury but did glance off of one of his ribs and lacerated a portion of his liver. However, the surgeons were able to repair the tear and save that section of the liver with no complications.”

Scully released a small breath. In her mind she was fearing the worst, intestinal damage, shredded organs, sepsis. This was probably the best they could hope for.

Dr. Feyler continued, pushing up his glasses. “The team was also able to repair damage to the intercostal muscles, the between his bottom and next rib. Agent Mulder did lose a significant amount of blood, both internally and externally, a class II hemorrhage. His doctors don’t believe a transfusion is necessary at this time.”

“Where is he now?” Scully spoke up. 

Dr. Feyler flinched a little, still scarred from their last interaction. 

“He-he’s is in post-op right now and will be moved to a room soon. I can take you there if you would like—but we ask that no more than two at a time right now.” Feyler looked nervously at the two imposing men standing behind the agent he was speaking with, eyes flicking down to their badges and guns. 

Skinner and Yang looked at each other for a moment, relieved that their friend and colleague would be okay but eager to get back to work. Scully eyed them apprehensively, ready to fight to be able to stay at the hospital just in case. Skinner turned back to her.

“It’s okay, Scully. Yang and I will head back to the bureau so we can catch this sonofabitch. You keep an eye out here, make sure he’s alright.” 

Scully nodded. 

“I’ll be sending over a body or two for extra security. Our guy hasn’t returned to a victim yet but he already broke pattern with Mulder once,” added Yang.

Skinner cleared his throat and clasped his hand on Scully’s shoulder before gathering his coat. Yang did the same and they left Scully to gather her things and follow the timid Dr. Feyler to the floor where Mulder would be soon. 

\- -

The room was standard off-white and beige, smelling of antiseptic. Scully was immune to it all, so used to the sights and smells of hospitals, both above and below ground. Yet, the room still unsettled her. Dr. Feyler left Scully standing in the idle of the room, facing the window overlooking the dark parking lot. Without a bed or an occupant, the sounds from the nurse’s station echoed hollowly around her. 

Not knowing how long she had stood there, Scully jumped at the noise of Mulder’s bed rolling through the door and hastily made herself scarce so the orderlies could set up the equipment properly. Without a word to her they left in a rush, off to maintain the hospital. Her view of the bed cleared, she took her first real look at Mulder since they took him from her downstairs.

He was pale. Too pale. Pale like death. His hand felt clammy and wrong as Scully curled hers around it, careful of the wires and IVs surrounding him in the bed. Scully rationally knew it was normal for patients that had lost that much blood to be cold to the touch, but it still felt off-putting. 

Scully crumpled inwardly, feeling every edge of the hard, plastic chair under her, every like and wrinkle of Mulder’s still hand. Relocated to his room, she became the sentry once more at Mulder’s bedside. Distantly she registered the sounds of a guard setting up a chair in the hallway, the squeal of his radio, of his response. 

Her phone had been silent for the last few hours, no word from Skinner or Yang about the fingerprints. She wondered if they were withholding information from her on the chance she would want to be involved in the capture of the person who stabbed Mulder. 

While the sentiments were there, the strong desire to see this bastard rot in jail or worse, Scully felt no urge to go out and chase him down herself. As long as he was caught, and she had a gut feeling that this chase was over now, she would be happy.

Well. Not happy. Maybe content with the situation. Not happy until Mulder is back on his feet.

She thought about Mulder’s apartment, the blood stains and crime tape likely still there. She would need to get clothing for him but didn’t want to disrupt the scene—but she was thinking too far ahead. Mulder hadn’t even woken up yet. Scully refocused.

It should be anytime now. The sedation was off almost immediately after surgery and it was just a mixture of blood loss and painkillers that kept him under right now. That and shock, trauma. 

Scully shook her head, feeling overwhelmingly sad that this happened, that this is how Mulder solved the case, by becoming a victim. It wasn’t intentional, she knew he wasn’t trying to lure the suspect to him, but it was his verbal attack on his character that made him an obvious target. Every time they were trust into this position, of waiting at bedsides or being hurt, Scully always circled around the big picture. 

A lot of people in law enforcement did. Everyone who went through training at Quantico was taught the effects of seeing and experiencing so much evil, so much trauma and even being knocked down a few times. Burnout. Depression. Strings of cases unsolved, senseless violence, mental strain and psychological ramifications. Was it all worth it, in the end? This suffering here and now—could it have been avoided?

She felt a little guilty as well. More than a little, it was her birthright as a Catholic woman. She had pointed out to him that attacking this guy in the press would likely make him make a rash mistake and he agreed. She should have thought he’d be a target, she should’ve made sure he was safe, should’ve gone home with him or even let him sleep at work. 

Her thoughts still swirling uncertainly around her mind, Scully got up and stretched, her back aching from the day and the stress of the afternoon. She tried her best to freshen up in the bathroom and distantly realized she was starving, but she didn’t want to leave Mulder, not when he’d probably be awake soon. Not ever again, if she could help it.

Instead, she turned back into the room and made a nest of her jacket and bag in the uncomfortable chair and pulled it closer to the bed. Scully leaned over Mulder, kissing his forehead and lingering at the familiar action, smoothing his hair back and muttering unheard words in his direction. She toed off her shoes and curled up in the chair, her hand resting comfortably in Mulder’s, settling in for the hours ahead of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on Tumblr at viceversawrites  
> also I'm making up most of the procedure and medical stuff of course, but I have attempted to research online as best I could. any mistakes or weird shit is mine alone!


	6. Chapter 6

Tight, tight, too-tight pain is all Mulder could register as he woke up. It was blinding, dull and sharp, radiating from his side to his spine to everywhere. Somewhere on the edge of his subconscious he noticed that it wasn’t as bad as before. 

Before?

He sucked in a breath. Bad idea. The pain made him tense up, which in turn made it worse.

Oh, right. He got stabbed. Fuck.

Bit by bit the initial blinding pain dulled, his body getting used to the sensation, and he was able to relax, relieving the tension and pressure. Mulder cracked his eyes open and took in his surroundings. 

The standard single hospital room, darkened. He had no idea what time it was, or even what day. He lifted his right hand carefully, clumsy from pain and drugs, felt the pile of bandaging on his side and had a brief flashback to seeing the glint of a knife heading toward him and then nothing. 

His left hand felt weighed down and warm and he soon realized that Scully was asleep in the chair next to him. Scully. She must’ve found him. It was starting to come back to him like a night spent too-tipsy. He should’ve guessed. He studied her in the dim light, curled up uncomfortably in the chair, coat half covering her in sleep. 

He felt bad, and not only because he just had surgery, just got attacked. He always felt a little guilty when he was injured to the point of being in the hospital just for the toll it took on Scully. About half the time it was his fault, and probably this time too. But this was the first time either of them had been injured since starting their new relationship. He knew how he would feel if their positions were switched and was thankful they weren’t.

Mulder felt a rush of gratitude, the medication amplifying his emotions. Even before they began down this particular path in their relationship she was always there for him, watching over him and fighting for him. He hoped this would be a little simpler this time around as opposed to what they had been through in the past. They could be more open with each other. More demonstrative.

Scully shifted in the chair and her face scrunched up. Whatever was running through her mind was not letting her get rest so Mulder decided to wake her up, let her know that he would be okay. He squeezed her hand and tugged a little, jostling her awake. The spark of pain it caused him was worth it.

“Mmumpf,” Scully moaned, bleary eyed. She sat up, moving her free hand to rub at a pain her neck from sleeping crooked. “Mulder?” her attention shifted and saw that he was awake. 

“Hey Scull-,” Mulder rasped. 

Scully stood up, cringing at the myriad of sore muscle she had accumulated over the night, and leaned over him to give him a kiss on the side of his head. “God, Mulder. I was worried. How are you feeling?”

Mulder shifted a little in bed, wishing he could lean up and chase the kiss that left him too soon. He groaned at the movement and then coughed and froze, trapping his air in his throat. Damn that hurt. 

Scully took control and guided a straw in his mouth so he could relieve the urge to cough with water. He took a few seconds to recover before answering, his eyes still squeezed shut.

“Like I got stabbed with a really fucking huge knife.” A few more shaky breaths, trying to ride out the wave of pain his movements caused. “Scully, did you see how big that thing was?” He tried to inject humor, or something, into his tone but Scully looked anything but amused. 

“Yes I did, I caught a glimpse. The crime scene guys have got it now—they should have prints to run so we can catch him.” As she spoke she continually ran her hands through Mulder’s hair, a comfort to him and to her. 

Mulder was silent for a minute and was drifting under Scully’s gentle caress. Scully decided to call in a nurse, “Just to check you over, make sure your wound is okay.”

Mulder hummed and vaguely registered someone checking his side a little while later. They gave him another dose of medication, or maybe it all caught up with him, but he was out like a light before the nurse even left. 

\--- 

“So he’s just, gone? Disappeared?” she asked lowly. Incredulous Scully was a scary Scully, even at a sleep rumpled five-foot-two, but the men on the other side of Mulder’s bed did not waver. 

Well. They tried not to show it.

“We have the ID, Agent Scully. I’ve got plain-clothes agents posted at his address, the bar he frequents, his subway entrance, his ex-girlfriend’s house. We’ll catch him,” Yang defended quietly in deference to the sleeping Mulder between them. 

Skinner shifted the files in his hand and spoke up. “We have all the evidence we need. The knife collection, his manifesto—which was riddled with spelling errors by the way—and his prints. Mulder can make a positive ID as soon as he wakes up. It’s just a matter of time.”

Scully was pacing, antsy now that the man who hurt Mulder was still on the loose. 

“We should have caught him by now,” she muttered.

“Listen, it’s only been a few hours,” said Yang. “He probably got spooked and is hiding out at a cheap motel or an ex’s house since last night. He can’t hide forever.”

“He still has access to knives at every Wal-Mart and pawnshop and in between he could get to. We can’t rely on the M.O. we created for profiling anymore. He’s panicking, fleeing. He knows he made a mistake but as far as he thinks, Mulder is the only one who can ID him,” Scully argued.

“Which is why I’m keeping the guard outside this room until this guy is caught,” Yang interjected.

“Are we sure we have all of his connections covered? Work, distant family, old friends?”

“We’ve got people fanning out everywhere, Scully,” said Skinner. “I’ve got guys combing street footage, trying to trace his movements to Mulder’s apartment right now. We’ll get him on tape and try to follow him out.”

“We’ve also got a team tracking down his past non-violent whereabouts to get more of a pattern,” added Yang.

Skinner nodded and continued. “He’s got no bank account we’ve found, and judging on his living situation he has no money saved up. As far as we’re aware, he doesn’t know Mulder can identify him—but he might have caught his own mistake with the gloves which is why he’s so quiet.”

“And we’re not making this public yet?” asked Scully.

“No. If we can trick him into thinking we haven’t got a lead still, he might reappear sooner rather than later.”

Scully nodded thoughtfully. She knew deep down that the men in front of her knew what they were doing but she needed to be sure. The self-preservation her anxiety triggered was making her mind run at super speed, what have they missed? She tried to calm down, to rationalize. She cocked her head toward the seating and relaxed her stance. 

At Scully’s gesture, the men sat on the small hospital-issues sofa in the corner of the room. Scully gathered the files from Skinner and resumed her place at Mulder’s side, listening with half an ear as Yang made the call to bring in another agent for guard duty. Better safe.

The file on the suspect was thin but full of information. Derrick Butler, 28. The average American, a lower-class male who thinks the world is out to get him when, in reality, the world was built for specifically him to succeed. Wasted his life with some petty drug offences, no high school diploma. No father listed, raised by his mother for some of his childhood and then by his uncle because his mother was too strung out to bother with him any longer. 

Scully shuddered at the thought but wasn’t surprised. It looks like the uncle was the father figure and the one with job problems. He worked as a janitor in the same building as the first string of victims and was fired four months ago after being accused of stealing. The uncle was then fired from his other temp agency after the accusations and then took his life a few days before the stabbings started. 

They had this guy in the crosshairs. Evidence, motive, ID, fingerprints, knife collection. Now they just had to find him. 

Mulder stirred, now waking to a room full of people in the middle of the day with serious expressions on their faces. That’s always a good thing. Maybe he should just go back to sleep.  
Scully noticed him moving first and shot up out of her chair, dropping the files on the small table next to her. 

“Mulder, how are you feeling?”

Mulder groaned and shifted slightly. 

“Like a million bucks,” he managed, his arm held close, supporting his side. “Updates?”

Scully patted his hand and nodded toward Skinner and Yang. “Nothing more than I told you before.”

Mulder looked up at her, slightly confused. “And what you told me earlier was?”

Scully smiled and turned toward her superiors, explaining that Mulder was a little out of it due to the morphine. “The guy hasn’t been caught yet, but we have an ID.”

Mulder nodded and flopped his head backward. “Sounds about right.”

A nurse chose that moment to come in. 

“Agent Mulder,” she started. “My name is Stephanie and I’m on the team that’s taking care of you while you’re here. I’m glad to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?” She began her routine checks on his pulse, IV lines, wires, and bandaging. 

“Just peachy, Stephanie.”

“Are you in any pain?”

Mulder shook his head. “Not bad.”

Scully watched the exchange like a hawk, making sure the nurse was taking care of Mulder. Skinner and Yang stood together and began to make their exit. 

“We’re going back to the bureau. Mulder, Scully, you’ll be the first to have any updates.” He paused at the foot of Mulder’s bed and gave him a long look. “I’m glad to see you’re alright, Mulder.” Skinner nodded and walked out the door as his phone rang. 

“The next shift of officers will be here in about an hour,” added Yang, and he followed Skinner. 

“Any discomfort? Pain elsewhere?”

Mulder shook his head again. “I just woke up. Everything is crap. I’ll need to pee soon. And then I want a hamburger.”

Both Scully and the nurse smirked at his declarations. 

“I’ll update your doctor and see what he has to say about all of that, including moving around. For now just sit tight, and there’s a bedpan right here if you need it.” 

Mulder made a face at that. The nurse ignored him and wrote some things on chart before leaving with a preppy spring in her step. 

“She is entirely too happy to be working here,” Mulder grumbled. 

“Shut up Mulder.”

“Hey, no need to be mean to me,” Mulder whined, “Not while I’m laying helpless in a bed.”

Scully rolled her eyes and laughed. 

“Aren’t you gonna kiss me better?” he pulled out the puppy eyes.

Something in Scully shifted—she was so happy at what he suggested. This thing between them was still fragile and new, and this whole case had shaken their foundation. She leaned over him, sliding one hand down his good arm and the other through his hair. 

“As your doctor,” she started, “I’m not sure it’s wise to add any stress onto your system at the moment.”

“Oh this wouldn’t be stress, Dr. Scully, kissing is practically a cure,” he replied loopily, smile all teeth. 

Scully stifled a laugh at his drugged speech but kissed him anyway, taking care to be gentle despite the jovial mood Mulder seemed to be in.

She pulled away with a smirk, mirroring Mulder’s face, and gave him one more peck before leaning back. 

“Rest. The doctor will be here soon.”

Mulder relaxed back into the hospital bed, drifting along with the drugs and the endorphins. 

“Thanks Dr. Scully, jus’ what you ordered.” He punctuated the statement by squeezing her hand and tugging it closer to his chest. Uncomfortable. Recovering. Content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr at viceversawrites


	7. Chapter 7

An hour and a half later the doctor walked in just as Mulder was starting to consider the bedpan out of sheer panic. The post-operative pain in his side barely registered under the adrenaline and, bless her, Scully had been using every trick in the book to distract him from his, um, discomfort. 

“Doc, thank god, can I get up please? I’m about to burst,” Mulder ejected. 

“And good afternoon to you, Mr. Mulder. I’m your surgeon, Raymond Hani,” droned the doctor. Hani flipped open Mulder’s medical file and skimmed in a practiced move as the same nurse from before trailed in after him. “You seem to be recovering fast for less than a day of recovery. I see no reason why you can’t start moving around—slowly.”

Scully and Mulder released breaths, one more strained than the other, and Mulder attempted to move the blankets off of him without moving his torso. 

“Whoa, wait just a second there, Agent Mulder!” exclaimed Stephanie in her southern accent, not wasting an ounce of exuberance on the short exchange. What Hani seemed to lack in enthusiasm was more than made up in the nurse. “Let me help you with all that.” Like a pro, Stephanie had the sheets down, IV lines capped, gown tied, and Mulder up in record time. He only took a second to reorient before shuffling off, Stephanie supporting him all the way. 

Scully was momentarily distracted by how small he looked, even standing taller than her. His slow and stilted movement hurt her, even after the joking mood he’d been in. Seeing him in pain like this, it was unbearable. Mulder should never look frail.

The doctor turned to Scully as they shuffled off, introducing himself as the main surgeon on Mulder’s case as Scully shook his hand, introducing herself as a doctor as well to skip to the medical essentials.

“Mr. Mulder is in fact recovering nicely. The initial wound bypassed almost everything. The blade seemed to glance off his rib and into his liver, which was lucky because it slowed the impact and minimized the damage. I assume the intern, uh,” he looked at the chart again, “Feyler, I assume he got the evidence to the right people?”

Scully’s brain was still trying to process the ‘lucky’ part of Mulder getting stabbed and took a moment to respond. 

“The knife? Yes, it was recovered correctly.”

“Excellent,” replied Dr. Hani with the patience of a man who’s been awake far too long. “I hope it helps you catch the man who did this.” He clicked the file back into the holder and made his escape. “Stephanie will follow up as soon as your partner in there is done. Good afternoon.” And he was gone. 

Scully’s impression of the man’s bedside manners wasn’t the best, but since the man operated on Mulder and saved his life she gave him a pass.

The doctor exited a few minutes before Mulder began his awkward shuffle back to bed, much more slowly and painfully than before. Stephanie followed him closely, one hand on his elbow and the other ready to stabilize him. Mulder flashed Scully a half smile and tucked his arm further against his side. 

Scully dashed around the bed and helped him sit down on the side of the bed. Stephanie helped to lift his legs and Scully helped him lean back slowly. The nurse adjusted his sheets, rehooked his IV line, and was uncharacteristically quiet for a minute, making some more notes in his chart at the end of the bed. 

“Alright, Agent Mulder,” Stephanie drawled. “You just hit that call button if you need anything else or if you need to get up again. Don’t go wanderin’ off by yourself! I’ll be on the floor until this evening.” Stephanie popped out and took the remaining energy from the room with her.

Mulder looked bad again. It was just the simple exertion of going to the bathroom that did him in but he was sweating and panting. He felt like shit too, and all he wanted was to drift off and wake up when he was totally healed again. 

Scully couldn’t help but run her fingers through his hair as he fought to regain his breath and his comfort. She was pissed at Butler, how he was still out there doing god knows what, how he hurt so many people, how he hurt Mulder. Soon enough, Mulder relaxed under her care and the drugs and fell into an uncomfortable sleep. 

Scully spent some time there at his side, smoothing his hair, trailing her fingers along his arm. Just trying to maintain a connection of some sort to his sleeping form. Her stomach roused her from her thoughts and she decided to run down for a late lunch and some much needed coffee. 

As she exited, Scully nodded at the new guards who were protecting Mulder, thankful that they were there. She really didn’t think he would be attacked again – not even all of Butler’s original victims, the ones he was most angry at, were dealt with fatal blows, and no one was attacked twice.

The hospital’s cafeteria had the standard fare of sandwiches, soups, bad coffee, and a salad bar that should be a hazardous waste area. Sneeze guards can only protect so much in an environment like this. 

Ignoring her inherent disgust at the public food options, Scully went through the line and picked up a sandwich, fruit cup, and the biggest coffee they had. Sitting a table away from anyone else, Scully felt the full weight of everything that had happened in the last few days. Few months. Few years.

Exhaustion crept over her, making eating a task that took effort. Her arms felt heavy and her jaw ached from sleeping oddly the night before. The bread was stale and she picked at the sandwich, barely eating half of it. She forced down the fruit cup and took long draws of the coffee, used to years of precinct sludge. 

It was the quiet times like these that made her question everything. Their mission, their devotion to the files and to law enforcement in general. A few weeks ago, when the new part of their relationship began, Mulder and her spoke of their wild ideas and dreams for their lives. The usual if you knew it would succeed and had unlimited funds, what would you do question. 

Scully revealed that she could be happy living almost anywhere that wasn’t too humid, having been accustomed to moving and adapting as a kid. She’d love to travel more, and to fund research projects and projects that helped victims. You know, and cure cancer. 

Mulder’s answers didn’t surprise her too much, but he had some intriguing ideas that stuck with her. Mainly, if he knew it would work out, he’d quit the FBI. His absolute dream would be to join in with the Gunmen and basically be a private detective – work on the x files independently and without the regulation of the Bureau. 

Scully had mentioned that then he’d lose the credibility the FBI provides, but he just looked at her a little funny and said “No, Scully, that’d be your job.”

He just assumed she’d be there with him, running an independent agency and chasing down cryptids and killers across the world. 

What she wouldn’t give for that. 

If they could just take all the files with them, get some serious funds and probably more agents – Scully stopped there. It was a pipedream. Maybe one day when they’re older and less inclined to fieldwork. Maybe one day when they’re a little more secure, a little more settled. This was their life right now and just because Mulder was hurt didn’t mean that it was the wrong path for them. They couldn’t give up now.

At least, thought Scully with a small smile, at least they had each other. Now in more ways than before. She didn’t quite know how it was all developing, it was still new, but they had known each other for so long, known everything between them, that it was comfortable. It felt right.

The harsh ringing of her cell phone startled Scully out of her thoughts. 

“Scully.”

“Hey, it’s Skinner. We’ve got a tail on Butler. He was spotted by a plainclothes in his neighborhood. The team is in place, they’re just waiting for him to be away from crowds.”

Scully was relieved. They had their guy, the case was over. 

“That’s good news, sir. Let me know when he’s in custody.”

“Will do.” And Skinner hung up.

Feeling moderately better Scully contemplated getting a pudding cup to go but decides to down the rest of the coffee and rejoin Mulder upstairs. Her spirits were on the upswing and she was feeling punchy enough that she stopped by the giftshop and bought a tiny stuffed fox with a balloon tied to it. She wanted to see him smile.

Scully entered the elevator, feeling only mildly ridiculous with the impulse gift in her hands. A full minute goes by, the elevator busy with the bustle of the hospital, before she reaches Mulder’s floor. 

Scully stops in front of the door and addresses the guards. They look more bored than anything else and Scully can’t blame them. This type of assignment wasn’t put of recruitment material. She tells them about the call from Skinner and they looked pleased. Scully bypassed them easily, maneuvering the balloon and toy through the door. 

Mulder was sleeping and Scully was careful to be quiet. She sat the fox on the small table next to the bed and settled in again, turning to Mulder’s face to check on him. He didn’t exactly look restful, more like uncomfortable than anything else. Scully felt helpless. At this stage of recovery there was nothing she could do but sit there and wait for him to be better. It was difficult, being a witness to pain and discomfort, and they were both too used to the horrible feeling it caused. 

She reaches out and rubs his leg in what she hopes is a comforting manner. After a few minutes he seems to relax, but then a pained look comes over him and he begins to wake. 

Concerned, Scully stands, switching over to full doctor mode. Just as he opens his eyes she’s got a hand on his forehead, checking for a fever. Finding nothing out of the ordinary she checks his pulse at his wrist and his neck as he completely wakes up. 

“You the doc now, Scully?” he quips, but quickly grimaces and reaches for his side. “Damn.”

Finding his pulse fast but not overly strong, Scully gets more worried that something might be wrong. His symptoms could just be that he’s in pain, but with the number of drugs he’s on he should be fairly content. His IV lines are still attached. She checks the monitors and notes a lower than before oxygen level, and a little faster heart rate but again, nothing alarming.

“Are you in pain, more than earlier?” Scully moves to the other side of the bed and checks his bandages for blood but finds none. She leans the bed back down until it’s completely flat.

Mulder thinks, still clutching his side a little, and nods slightly. “I think so. Does this mean I get more of the good stuff?”

Scully ignores the remark. “Where else does it hurt besides where your stitches are?” She’s not sure if it’s her current hyperawareness of him but she notices his breaths. They’re coming a little quicker than usual. He looks paler than he did just an hour ago. She calmly hits the nurse call button—the emergency one. She’s not taking any chances with these new developments. 

“Um,” he says between breaths, “my whole chest hurts. Like radiating in. And it’s, it’s tight. To breathe. Because of my ribs?”

“It’s okay, Mulder,” she preemptively soothes. The last thing he needs to do is freak out—that could only exacerbate the problem, whatever it may be. “I called a nurse in and we’ll get you—”

“Aw, fuck, ow,” Mulder interjects. His breathing was audible, short and loud. “Worse. Hurts. To breathe.” Both of his hands were at his chest, instinctually pushing and trying to stabilize whatever was wrong. 

Even though it was only seconds ago Scully turned on her heel, about to run out and drag someone in here. Something was wrong. Before she could even shout, Stephanie was at the door. 

“Hi there Agents! What’s going on?”

Scully talked over her. “Shortness of breath, pain in the chest, low blood pressure, and lowering O2 levels.”

Stephanie is taken aback for only half a second before launching into checking things herself. 

“Looks like it,” she commented, slightly concerned herself. “Agent Mulder, how are you feeling?” She unhooked her pager and sent a note somewhere, hopefully to call in someone who can help. 

“Hurts. More than earlier. Hurts to breathe.” 

Scully recognized the beginning stages of Mulder’s panic face and she grasped his hand where it was still clutching at his chest. 

Stephanie looked over the monitors again and her demeanor changed. “Ok, Agent Mulder. What we’re going to do is put an oxygen mask on you to help you breathe a bit better.” As she spoke she uncoiled a mask from the wall behind the bed and secured it over his face. He still took in sharp breaths but they seemed to come a little easier, or maybe just muffled.

Scully and Stephanie watched as his O2 levels came up a little further, but not far enough. They made eye contact and silently communicated. Something was wrong. 

Unable to speak through the mask, and unwilling to stop focusing on his breathing, Mulder tugged Scully’s hand in a panicked motion. 

“Mulder,” she came further into his line of sight as his head flopped to her side. “Mulder, something is wrong with your lungs, probably, but it’s not severe enough to warrant panic. Stephanie called your doctor back. He’ll be here soon. Just focus on breathing as normally as possible.” 

Mulder nodded weakly and closed his eyes, trying to block out the panic he was feeling. His hand remained tight around Scully’s. 

While Scully was talking, Stephanie had been listening to Mulder’s breath sounds with a stethoscope she retrieved from the hall. Just as she was about to talk to Scully, Dr. Hani breezed in, cleaning his glasses. He was followed closely by Feyler. 

“Stephanie?” he inquired. “Why am I back here?”

Stephanie relayed the new information and Scully nodded along behind her. The nurse didn’t miss a beat and Scully turned her attention back to Mulder. His eyes were wide open and staring at her, panic evident in the strain of his breathing. She silently moved closer to him, trying to comfort him while the doctor made some notes and listened to his chest.

Hani stepped back and motioned for Feyler to examine Mulder as well. The intern jumped at the opportunity. After barely a minute of listening and tapping Feyler turned and reported to Hani. “Breath sounds on the right side are decreasing, looks like we’re dealing with a collapsing or collapsed lung. Pneumothorax.”

“Good,” replied Hani with a sharp nod. “Get the kit.”

Feyler nodded and rushed into the hall and Hani turned back to the two Agents, one panicking more than the other. Stephanie started to peel back the top half of Mulder’s hospital gown as Hani spoke.

“Collapsed lungs are not an uncommon side effect with trauma to the upper torso, especially a penetrating injury,” he relayed monotonously. “I am going to have Dr. Feyler perform the procedure. He has done it before and this is a teaching moment.” In a sudden breakthrough of bedside manner he turns to Mulder and attempts to reassure him. “If this were any more serious I wouldn’t have an intern work on you. I will stay here to observe.”

Mulder almost impossibly tightened his grip on Scully. This drawn out pain and panic and waiting was traumatic to both of them. Scully remembered this type of emergency from her residency days. Something that needed immediate attention but wasn’t immediately life threatening. It was like discovering that sharks were circling under your boat, like dread. The worst of anxiety. It could get immensely worse, but it also could be fixed easily.

Scully explained to Mulder what was happening as best she could. “Because of the trauma to your side, the pressure is off in your chest cavity which created a pocket of air around your right lung. That’s why you’re short of breath right now. He is going to remove the pressure with a needle and you’ll feel a lot better.”

“Dr. Scully is correct.” Hani nodded.

Mulder nodded, still sucking in air with wide eyes but trying to relax his upper body at the pain. He was very conscious of the fact that he was about to get stabbed in the side with something long and sharp for the second time in 24 hours. 

Scully grasped his hand with both of hers, reassuring him that she’d be right by his side. “Don’t be scared, it’ll be over really soon.”

Feyler returned and presented a kit that included, most glaringly, a huge needle. Hani stepped back and let Feyler prepare the instrument as Stephanie sterilized the area. 

“Ok, just hold still. Feyler, are you ready?” 

Feyler nodded and, thankfully, looked calm. He tapped out the area on Mulder’s chest. “Ok, Mr. Mulder. You’ll feel a sharp pinch and then a release of pressure as the trapped air leaves your cavity.”

Stephanie placed her hand on one shoulder and Scully moved a hand to the other to help keep him still, just in case.

Feyler aligned the needle and thrust it downward. The room went still, the medically trained waiting for the soft gush of air to sound from the needle. After two very long seconds they heard it and the tension level in the room went down dramatically. 

Until they turned to Mulder. 

The look on his face was not one of relief, it was one of growing panic. He still couldn’t breathe. His breaths were shallow and faster than before. The next few seconds happened so fast that Scully could barely recall their order.

The needle, still sticking out of Mulder’s chest, suddenly spurted a fountain of blood two feet above their heads before landing wetly on Mulder’s chest.

The machines monitoring Mulder’s health all screamed at once.

Mulder’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp. 

And Scully screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did do a LOT of research on collapsed lungs and so I hope all the stuff I made up mixed with the facts well. Half of this stuff came from my vast experience watching Grey’s Anatomy so :D.


	8. Chapter 8

The vision of blood spurting from Mulder’s chest would haunt Scully for a long time. Maybe more so than shooting him, or seeing him be shot. Jesus Christ, she had witnessed many of Mulder’s traumas, but this was different. As a pathologist, Scully’s mind doesn’t always conceptualize blood as alive, as having pressure and mass and movement—at gushing when its housing is punctured or disturbed. 

But even with the right mindset, no one could have predicted what just happened. Collapsed lungs, or a pneumothorax, while sounding like a life-threatening and horrific problem, are very treatable. It just means that air has gotten into the chest cavity which causes one lunch not to be able to expand all the way. In Mulder’s case, trauma to the lung and chest cavity, the knife, must’ve caused air to leak into the wrong spot until the pressure became too much. 

Releasing the pressure with the needle should’ve done the trick. It should’ve released the air, the pressure. If it didn’t get it all, they would’ve attached a chest tube. The lung should’ve expanded normally, reflated. Mulder’s lung would’ve been totally recovered in a week. He should’ve been fine. 

He should’ve been fine. 

Instead something went wrong – something unexpected and involving blood in the chest cavity. Enough blood to make a temporary blood fountain, so much blood that it caused the pressure in Mulder’s chest to go crazy, to collapse his lung, to shoot out of his body. 

Scully wouldn’t be closing her eyes without seeing that, without seeing the look on Mulder’s face. Pure panic. His real panic face, not the one he pretends it is. The face of abject fear.  
Hani and Feyler, when it happened, both jumped in time with Scully. Hani rushed over first, double checking Feyler’s work and barking orders at Stephanie who was as cool and collected as ever, making calls and paging the right people. 

Scully watched, in shock, alarms still ringing and echoing in her head, Mulder’s limp hand still clutched between hers. 

Feyler rushed around the bed, unlocking wheels as Stephanie called in reinforcements. Mulder’s heart hadn’t stopped or arrested, but his blood pressure dropped dramatically. Hani secured the needle in Mulder’s chest, still bubbling blood, for transport. They couldn’t remove it now. 

Scully couldn’t move. 

She took in all this movement in her periphery, eyes glued to Mulder’s face, desperately searching for any kind of awareness. He remained unmoving, looking small in the bed, strapped under a foggy mask, rumpled blankets, a fine sheen of sweat. Breathing. Barely. But breathing.   
Then he was wheeled away, surrounded on all sides with medical personnel. 

Her hand was wrenched away from his. 

Feyler hung back for half a second, stuttering out a “We’ll update you when we know something,” before he turned on his heel and followed the gurney outside. 

There was blood in on the floor. 

Scully’s arm remained stretched out, empty, suddenly cold. 

\- - - 

Unconscious. He’d been unconscious before. There was usually a moment or two, just after a blow to the head, a second to think “whelp, I’m about to be unconscious” and an acknowledgement of his vision blacking out. 

This time was different. 

This time had a long lead up of sustained panic and not knowing what was happening. Scully was trying to be reassuring through it, and he never let go of her hand. He never wanted to let go. She was his pillar of strength, and he trusted her judgement and medical knowledge, even when that huge needle came at him. Even when he couldn’t breathe right. But then—

He saw the blood. 

His blood. 

He saw it grotesquely shoot from his chest, propelled by the pressure inside, the pressure he had been actively fighting against just to keep breathing. Even on oxygen it was a conscious effort. In. Out. In, dammit, IN! 

It was unimaginable pressure, and such a tiny relief when the needle went in. So tiny – he was able to take one breath – then the blood. Then he couldn’t move. Rendered numb, in shock, in rejection of what he just witnessed. Then nothing. Limp. Cold. His left hand warm in Scully’s. That was his last conscious thought. 

His unconscious thoughts were less coherent, images appearing in his conscious like some sinister form of dreaming. He would liken it to his darker times of profiling – of truly being in another mind. But the horrors he saw were all his own, all conjured from his subconscious, all from things he’s seen or thought about so long he almost experienced. 

A dark alley. Light rain. People - avoid them. Don’t run away. Don’t be suspicious. 

A flash of red. 

Hunting for prey. Sharp. Sharp. Sharp. A dog barking. Must blend in. Must not be noticed. Must strike. 

Red. Red hair. Red blood. Red hair. Scully. 

The agent. Gloves on. Short.

Dark. Nighttime. Haven’t been seen, haven’t been noticed. 

Sharp sharp sharp, sheathed in leather. Sheathed in flesh. Her flesh. Red blood red hair. 

Oh, god, stabbing Scully. 

Being stabbed. 

His side, the hunt, the pain, oh god the pressure can’t breathe can’t breathe still can’t—Scully!

\- - - 

Intellectually, she knows what happened. A presumed pneumothorax revealed to be a hemothorax. Blood collected in his – in the pleural cavity, pushing against the wall of the lung to compress. Dyspnea. Trouble breathing. And now, this. And now an empty hospital room. 

A toy fox, weighing down a balloon, looking blankly over the blood on the floor alongside Scully. 

They missed something. Dr. Hani must’ve missed something during surgery. An entry wound into the chest wall – something that had, Jesus, been bleeding all day. 

Scully suddenly sat down, realizing she had been standing alone in the room for an amount of time unknown to her. 

The injury was likely aggravated due to movement. Mulder – the patient. He went to the bathroom. That must’ve done it. That must’ve torn something, something inside his chest, so close to his lungs, his heart. Inside the solid wall she had so taken for granted as a place of safety, of strength, of comfort. 

Scully shook in her chair, facing nothing, facing the blank horror of the unknown.

They’d need, they’d need to perform a thoracotomy, to drain the blood. To get the blood out – got the gush of blood it was too much, too much blood and he had been so pale and so still and they took him away from her. 

A thoracotomy. A tube inserted into the chest wall to drain the accumulated blood. They’ll look for signs of hypovolemic shock. 

She was in shock. 

They’ll look for blood pressure to come back up – for his heartrate to normalize. If it doesn’t, they’ll need to… to… 

Open him up. Again. Cut into him to repair the hole in his chest wall. Reduce chances of infection, sepsis, death. Death. Death. He could die, Mulder could die, Mulder was stabbed and now he could die. 

Scully begain crying during this thought process, utterly helpless in the face of the horror of what just happened, what could be happening. She was spiraling. It wasn’t time. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, god, anything but like this. They needed more time—they deserved more time dammit! They’d barely gotten started on them. They’d barely talked about what they mean to each other, how vital they were to each other’s existence. 

She hadn’t had enough time to convince him he was loved. So, so loved, unconditionally. Irrevocably. So deeply it hurt, god it hurt right now to even think. 

Scully curled up in a protective pose, arms around her legs, head resting in her knees. The sobbing hurt more in this pose, straining her back, but she couldn’t think about moving. She’d shatter. 

\- - -

Mulder thinks he was awake for a minute. He saw lights flashing above him, ceiling lights going by as he was rolled somewhere. He couldn’t move. He was weak, but awake. A face leaned over. Scully? No—the nurse. Where was Scully?

She was saying something. What? Why—why didn’t he feel anything? He was numb. Something was digging into his face. Then, god, everything hurt, the pressure got worse, more painful, and—

Everything went black again. 

\- - -

The longer the room was empty and silent, the further inside her own head Scully went. She stopped blinking, blank stare stopping halfway across the trail of blood before her, where a wheel from the hospital bed ran through it.

She should tell someone. She should call Skinner, or Mom, or Yang. Or even the Gunmen—god, did they even know their friend was in the hospital yet again? Or were they too distracted with the latest conspiracy? People should know. She couldn’t shoulder this burden alone. 

She thought in patterns, always circling back to Mulder, Mulder, Mulder, festering under an oppressive weight of guilt and absolute, stark, heavy fear.

Someone came in to the room, distracting her only slightly from her spiraling thoughts in case they had information on Mulder. It was a janitor. Someone had told him about the blood, streaked and puddled and drying on the floor. Scully didn’t move and watched him as he silently mopped it up, water spreading it around, turning pink then slowly clear. 

The janitor left without a word to her, knowing from years of experience when his voice was welcomed and when to be respectfully silent. 

Time passed. It must’ve. Her body showed signs of time passing, of clock hands turning around the dial, the earth rotating. Her back ached, her neck. Her feet were numb, pulled so closely to her body. Her eyes painfully dry. A sentry for a forgotten throne.

\- - -

Scully must’ve dozed off, or passed out. Her eyes were raw and painful, still dry under their lids, and she couldn’t feel her legs or arms. The rest of her body just hurt. Ached. Oh, Mulder. 

But when she woke up, she knew something was different. She could feel, before opening her eyes, that something was in front of her. Someone. A bed. Mulder. 

Mulder. 

Relief stabbed her very core. Something inside her chest gave way and she could breathe again, albeit in silent sobs of release. Her symptoms were not unlike the trauma Mulder had been through. She took a moment, two moments, before looking, to recover. She didn’t have the energy in her to spring out of the chair. She couldn’t even if she did, with her limbs heavy, pins and needles, stuck tightly in position.

She started with her head, turning it in stages, waiting for the strain of her neck to allow movement inch by inch. She opened her eyes, just a confirmation. 

Mulder lay before her once more, flat on his back, a nasal cannula providing oxygen to his healing lungs. Weak. Unconscious. Alive. Alive.

Her hands unlocked from around her legs, allowing her limbs to stretch and burn and wake up, renewed. Regaining feeling hurt, it was a process, but god, it was worth it. 

Mulder was alive. 

Just then, Scully decided to stop wasting time, simply and without a major epiphany. Like she flipped a switch, the most right switch in the world, the most inevitable. No more of this where-is-our-relationship-going bullshit. No more wondering what steps they should and shouldn’t take. Scully decided to love him, fully, without restraint not necessitated by public decency.   
More than anything, she just wanted to prove to him that he was worth it – worth it all, all of her, all of her love. Unconditionally. 

Feeling and strength returned to her limbs and she could finally move to him. She scooted her chair over, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed with him – and if she knew it wouldn’t hurt him she would – but settling for grasping the hand that was so violently pulled away from her just hours before. 

Holding his hand. Holding his hand again. Never, ever letting go. 

\- - -

They had missed something in the surgery – they had all missed something. A tiny sliver of metal, the tip of the knife, had broken off and embedded into his rib, and they missed it. Only after an emergency operating room x-ray during the second surgery had they found it. 

“It was obscured, see, during the initial surgery to save his life,” explained Hani, pointing to the x-ray on the lighted board in front of him and Scully. He’d brought her to this conference room on her request – she wanted to know exactly what went wrong. “It was hidden on the underside of the bone. It is a wonder it did not catch on our gloves.” 

“Why did it take so long to cause damage?” Scully rasped. She needed a drink. After three days in the hospital with Mulder recovering from his second surgery, this was the first time she had left his bedside for any length of time. Finally, she was comfortable in his recovery. 

Butler had been caught while Mulder was in that second surgery. Skinner had tried to call her multiple times, but she was so out of it that she didn’t hear the phone ringing. He was captured, and the evidence at his apartment was more than enough to put him away for good. The day after the second surgery, Mulder was awake enough to identify Butler via mugshot, and his full statement was taken. Scully was there, holding his hand as he relived the trauma of the week, the whole time.

“We think the fragment of the blade shifted, likely when Mr. Mulder started walking. It was dislodged from its hiding place in the bone and then began to tear at the muscle around it with every breath. This caused a pneumothorax, a hemothorax, and the pressure became so great that when we went to relieve it – well, you were there and saw it yourself.”

Scully nodded, still staring at the x-ray evidence in front of her. She couldn’t help but shoulder some of the blame. After all, she had seen the knife after it was pulled from his body. It was at her insistence that it was handed off so quickly for fingerprint analysis. No one thought to look at the blade itself. Feyler had practically ran it to her, and she immediately passed it on to the crime scene techs. She should’ve examined it. Someone should’ve noticed that the tip was missing. 

It was useless to think this way. At least, that’s what Mulder kept telling her. This pattern of thinking constantly that she could’ve done more to save him from pain was a thought that Mulder himself was used to being plagued by, especially during the trauma of working with the VCS. “You can’t let it eat you alive,” he said from his hospital bed. “I need you here to remind me of the same.” 

Scully had kissed him, full on, the first time since his surgery in response. She knew now, after everything they’d been through, that he knew that she would always be there for him, and that he trusted that. That’s all she ever wanted. Acceptance of her love. 

“Any more questions, Dr. Scully?” Hani prodded impatiently. He didn’t like to be reminded of his mistakes. It had taken the full force of Scully’s inquiries to get him to agree to this meeting in the first place. 

“No, thank you. I’ll be on my way.” Without looking back Scully left, needing to go back to Mulder. 

He was exactly where she left him, looking so much better than he had just days before. He looked even better than before he was stabbed now that he had gotten some sleep. His color was back, and he was in good enough spirit to tease her again. His eyes had finally lost that haunted look that had clung to him for weeks because of this case. 

“Hey, Scully,” Mulder greeted, his hair flopping over his forehead. He was as glad to see her as she was him. “Welcome back. Can I go home yet?”

She dutifully rolled her eyes at the same question he’d asked every time she walked in the doorway. “No, Mulder. They’re keeping you here forever.”

“You laugh, woman, but that’s what it feels like,” he teased back, unconsciously slipping his hand back in to hers. 

Scully kissed the back of his hand, as was habit now, and then his cheek. “Just a few more days, Mulder, then home. At least you have the good drugs – I’ve had thoughts of self-medication just to get through the meals in the cafeteria.”

Mulder half chuckled, basking in the ability to do so without his whole body hurting from the movement. “I’ll share if you want, Scully. But you should go home and get some rest. Really. I’m okay.” His eyes took on a concerned glint. 

Scully smiled tightly, feeling the love in his concern, and shook her head. No way she was leaving him again. “Mom is bringing over some clothes for me later, and she wants to see you too.”

Mulder smiled at the thought of Scully’s mom caring enough to check up on him. He wasn’t alone anymore. That’s what was so different about this case, even after he got hurt. He wasn’t alone because Scully was by his side, and Scully wouldn’t let him slip away. God, he loved her so much. 

A sudden wave of emotion came over him. Half blaming the drugs, Mulder fought back tears. He wouldn’t change a second of this case for this moment alone. The sleepless nights, the frustration, the endless chase – it was all worth it because Scully was right there with him. No matter how much a case burned him, she would always be there to sooth his pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all who have read and reviewed this story - especially the dedication of @cryptidneet on tumblr (this chap is dedicated to her!!). 
> 
> follow me on tumblr at viceversawrites


End file.
